You Found Me
by TheGallifreyanWinchesterOf221B
Summary: Sherlock's dead and John is now alone. But he doesn't believe it. No, John Watson would never believe that Sherlock is dead. and he would do everything to bring him back. Everything.


**Hello! this is my third fic and its angst! Read on and tell me what you think about it. Thanks!**

* * *

"Damn it, Sherlock. Answer your phone." Mycroft breathed on his mobile phone, irritated. He is at his office at the Diogenes Club. The Homicide Division DI of New Scotland Yard just contacted him. _'Mycroft Holmes, you bastard, you're the British Government do something!'_

That's like the first time he talked to the DI and that's the first time someone cursed him. But no, that's not the matter. He needs Sherlock, now. Like right now.

London needs Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**_New Scotland Yard Press Conference_**

DI Greg Lestrade looked very harassed at the front table facing all the reporters and the public. There had been 6 murders in a week in all of London. No patterns, everything is random. Anderson can't even find a single trace on the crime scenes even if he is doing his job properly, which is not always by the way.

Sgt. Sally Donovan is at his side, briefing the public on the latest murders. A 32 year old man found dead sitting in a bench at Hyde Park found at dawn this morning and a 26 year old woman found dead at her house on Brixton, 30 minutes later.

'The investigation is still ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now' Sgt. Donovan said looking at Lestrade firmly, they can't screw this up, 6 murders in a week is enough to scare the wits out of the whole of New Scotland Yard and the whole of London's population.

A female reporter leaned in, microphone and recorder on hand and asked a question 'Could these be a work of a serial killer?'

'We can't say for sure if it's a serial killer. We haven't found any link that binds them all or proves this is serial killing, but we have our best people into it.' Lestrade answered then gave a small exasperated sigh, this is a very tough week, it would be nice to have a pint just now.

'Yes, but if they are serial killings, what should people do to keep themselves safe?' another reporter asked, this one male with glasses on.

'Look, I know you like writing about this, but we can't claim that this is serial murders if there is no evidence that proves it. Once we have enough evidence and we reached a proper and sensible conclusion, then we will inform the public immediately. But right now, we are still looking for it. This is the sixth murder this week, there has to be something.' Lestrade answered quickly not even taking a breath.

'Daily mail.' Donovan whispered.

Lestrade took a breath and summoned all his remaining strength to continue 'I know this is tough and frightening time for all of us and everyone just needs to exercise proper precautions. We are all as safe we like to be. Thank you.' Lestrade ended the conference and quickly got up, closely followed by Donovan.

'What now?'

'Bastards.'

'If you are talking abou-'

'This murderer. I swear when we found him, I'm going to lock him in a cell for the rest of his life.' Greg Lestrade said as he walked down the length of the corridor towards the floor where his office is located.

* * *

**_You're the one who kept me going  
But now you're gone and I'm dying  
I need you here with me, by my side.  
Please, come back… Sherlock… For me._**

* * *

'_Goodbye, John' _

John woke up from his nightmare, sweating and panting. A few breaths later when he's sure he won't die of hyperventilating he paused and thought about his dream. No, it's not a dream, a nightmare.

He's back on that road again, phone on his ear. Sherlock is talking to him. Sherlock sounds like he's crying. He's over there, at the top of the building. John just kept looking at him.

This is the only moment where John could remember Sherlock perfectly, not on those nights that they were running around London, no. Instead, it's that moment where Sherlock is at the top of Bart's saying goodbye to him, crying for him. He can remember it perfectly, he can remember the exact moment when his whole life has been ripped apart. Until, nothing left. Not even Sherlock's pulse.

A tear ran down John's face while he thought of this. Nothing has been right since The Fall, as they call it. 11 months have gone since Sherlock died. And John is now seeing his therapist for 11 months. Nothing changed. John knows he should fire her but somehow he doesn't he just don't know why.

Mycroft calls him every week. John would never answer. He moved out of Baker Street just mere days after Sherlock died and hasn't come back in there since. Lestrade always visits him and invites him out for a pint but John never answered the invitation.

Simply because he can't, he can't drink himself up and possibly, quite possibly, spill every emotion he bottled up and sworn that he would never let it spill out.

No, John Watson couldn't afford it. John Hamish Watson cannot accept the fact that Sherlock Holmes… His best friend…Sherlock, is dead.

* * *

**_We could have been so much more.  
SO MUCH MORE.  
Why? Why couldn't you just stay?  
I wish for one more miracle  
Just one more._**

**_Don't … be… dead._**

* * *

'Come back here at once.'

'What's so important, Mycroft?' Sherlock hissed on his phone, he was quite busy at the moment. He's undercover for god's sake.

'Its John. He needs you. Come back, Sherlock. Now.'

With a short intake of breath, Sherlock stood up from his hiding place watching the Moriarty's people and run. Run back to John Watson.

Mycroft Holmes stayed inside his posh black car, waiting for his brother to come out of the plane.

When Sherlock did, he looked different. So different from the last time Mycroft has seen him.

Sherlock loss a considerable weight, you don't have to be good at deducing to see it. His curls are longer his right cheekbone bleeding from a fresh wound. But his eyes. His eyes are different.

It's not the same eyes that Mycroft has used to see. Those eyes that is full of the thrill and intelligence. Those eyes, that sparkles in a mention of something interesting.

Those eyes now looked dead. Worried, sad, and most of all, full of regret.

Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, the Iceman quickly felt a pang of sadness and regret that cut down deep in his heart. That heart he refused to believe he have.

* * *

Sherlock knew it. Right from the start. He knew John Watson is different.

And he also knew right from the beginning. That John Watson wouldn't believe.

Nor John Watson would accept.

That he is "dead"

And he's right. Now, since that phone call from his brother, Sherlock can't stop himself from thinking, from worrying.

He cannot stop himself from thinking that he is the one who caused this. Who caused John Watson his pain.

Pain, that he will never, ever deserve.

* * *

The day has quickly gone over London. The Police are still searching for the murderer of those six people.

Or rather, 7 people.

A man in black shirt and pants with his face covered and weapons hidden perfectly in his body walked down stealthily and inside one of the buildings at Lauriston Gardens.

THAT building, in particular, in the man's memories this building has once been surrounded with police and is screened by police tapes when he walked inside with a friend closely by his side. Now he's all alone, cold air embracing him and his loneliness.

The man walked inside. All the other rooms in the building are rather occupied by families. It's been renovated and is now available for lodging.

There is only one room he could use.

He silently climbed up the stairs up to the third landing and proceeded to the door right in front of him. Crouching down, he pulled out a lock pick out of his pockets and start unlocking the door.

'Sir, John Watson just came out of his flat. 11 30, evening.'

'Good, thank you Anthea.' Mycroft said as he showed the video to Sherlock.

'John knows how to dodge the cameras installed around London. So I have cameras installed especially for him.'

'Where did he go?' Sherlock is now dressed on his suit with a purple shirt and a bit tight pants with his black coat draped over his body. Standing up, and ready for action.

Mycroft turned the computer to Sherlock. Sherlock scanned the screen and look up at Mycroft.

They always understand each other even when they just stare at each other's eyes. With a stiff nod, Sherlock walked out of Mycroft's office and into London's cold night.

* * *

**_I don't believe it  
I refused to believe it.  
YOU are stupid.  
In those times that we were together, do you really think that I knew nothing?  
That I learned nothing?  
If there's something I learned, Sherlock.  
I learned that I can't.  
And I can never, ever live without you.  
Never again._**

* * *

The man walked at the flat's bedroom. Revealing himself to the young man inside.

He's really not very picky about his victims. He just picks them out randomly.

Then kill them. Stab them all at the heart.

Clean of his traces.

Go back to his normal life.

Go to a phone booth and tip the police off randomly.

Then his work is done.

The young man scrambled to his feet, the murderer lunged onto him, silencing him with a gloved hand on his mouth.

The man pinned his victim at the wall, still holding a firm grip at the victim's face to silence him. He quickly brought out his knife, step a bit out of the way, and stabbed his victim at the heart once,

Twice,

Thrice. Until, he stopped. There's a creaking outside the room.

He slowly dislodged the knife out of his victim's heart. He checked for pulse, nothing of course. Then he slid down the body on the floor.

The door opened, revealing a tall lean man in a black coat. Sherlock Holmes. Alive and kicking.

'John. It's me.'

The murderer ripped his mask off staring at the Consulting Detective.

John Watson looked at his friend. To the man he just proved alive. To the man he chose to love and can now never tell him that.

'Welcome back, Sherlock.' John Watson said, as police lights started blaring outside the building, and the look at Sherlock's face is of utter sadness, regret and unspoken truth. Truth that must never be told.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! this is mainly based of on this tumblr post **

** hphotos-ak-xfp1/v/t1.0-9/10487474_660528110705419_6287314866866168647_ ?oh=65336a929a0d2e3d2387ab91f54bbc61&oe=5449A9A3&_gda_=1412814378_d5c5a87d350132e393ff175f57c0ca4b**

**i felt like writing it. so i did. :D**


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